


love must first shatter us

by stellahibernis



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Eros and Psyche, M/M, icarus - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 17:53:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12304494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellahibernis/pseuds/stellahibernis
Summary: Bucky builds himself wings because he can, because he wants to fly.One evening, just at sunset, he flies through a mist and finds an orchard on a hill just by the sea, bearing fruits he knows and more he doesn’t. He meets a man there, fingers smudged black from drawing with charcoals.He knows stories of the domains of gods, he knows Steve must be more than his physical appearance says. He knows of the dangers of these realms to mortals, and as he leaves at sunrise, he knows he should stay home.He goes back at next sunset, and every night after.





	love must first shatter us

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fairly loose adaptation of the source myths, I elaborate on them at the end notes.

 

### Part I: in this darkness

 

Blood is thrumming in his veins even though he’s standing still, pulling in a deep breath as he decides, nods to himself. The weather is perfect, skies clear, a slight wind, no sign of rain. He extends his arms out, flexes the muscles in his back. The additional weight is there, but he’s strong enough that it’s not a hardship, easy to manage as he knew it would be. He takes a step, then another. He runs, he jumps, remembering his practice; the correct form, the most efficient movement.

Bucky flies.

He soars up and up over the sea, the land disappearing farther and farther away from under him. A flock of seagulls surrounds him for a second but they leave him alone. The wind is ruffling his hair. He’s laughing, he realizes, happier than he remembers being since he was a child, since his family was lost to winter cold and sickness and he was left alone.

He lets out a whoop and the rocks echo it back to him as he takes a gentle turn, each movement growing more and more confident.

***

He’s never shown his wings to anyone in his hometown, because he knows they would have thought him crazy. Maybe he even is; having the idea to fly like birds, and taking countless hours to make it happen. There’s also the fact he knows it’s not safe at all, any little mishap could result into a deathly plunge, and there are so many things that could go wrong.

Yet, it’s not like he has anything to lose, there’s no one who would miss him if he fell.

And so, he built his wings, out of patiently gathered feathers, sewn and glued into a harness made of silk, tempered with beeswax to keep it all together. They’re a fragile concoction, for all that they can carry him, but there’s not much chance for him to make them stronger without them becoming too heavy. Sometimes he thinks that if he were a skilled metalsmith, a jeweler, he’d be able to spin thread strong and light enough to help with the structure, but that’s not his skill. He makes do with what he can do.

He can only fly when the sun isn’t high up in the sky, when its rays are gentler and can’t melt away the beeswax. He always takes into the air in the evenings, or very early in the mornings, always flying over the sea, because he loves the way the light glitters under him, how the gentle swell of the waves fills his ears.

***

He takes off one evening just as the sun kisses the sea, and soars into the sky only to be engulfed in a mist. There were no clouds anywhere within sight when he jumped from the cliff and yet, here he is. He has no time to panic before he’s out of it, last rays of setting sun caressing him again. He’s looking at a grassy hill dotted with trees descending into an impossibly blue sea. There are clusters of flowers all around, seemingly in every color imagined. It’s like an orchard or a garden, except not something that’s been diligently maintained, but one that sprung out because it wanted to. Or someone wanted it to.

Bucky knows all the land miles and miles around his hometown, and this is nothing like he’s ever seen before.

He almost turns; he knows stories of enchanted lands and the domains of gods, he knows what happens to mortals who stray in too far, but he spots someone sitting in the grass, the last rays of sun reflecting off a golden hair, and he’s turned his wings into a descent before he knows it.

His feet touch the ground that’s gratifyingly solid despite the enchanted appearance. Now that he’s standing here, the sweet fragrance of flowers is all around him, butterflies fluttering in the air. It’s beautiful, but Bucky only has eyes for the man sitting a few yards from him.

He looks like a man at least, even though Bucky knows he’s probably not quite what he seems. Or maybe he is, in some ways; there are things Bucky recognizes, character traits that shine through. His lips curve into a smile, and Bucky can see the mischief glinting in his eyes, tempered with kindness. There’s determination too, and Bucky thinks he might be quick to anger, albeit not unjustly. There’s a piece of honey colored wood resting on his knees, with sheets of parchment on it. Some charcoals too, black smudges on his fingers, and Bucky catches a sight of drawings before they’re covered.

“I don’t think I’m anywhere near home,” Bucky says, because someone has to break the silence and the man seems content to just keep looking at him.

He smiles at Bucky then. “No, not now. You can get back at sunrise, during the moments the sun takes to emerge from the sea. The barrier is thinner then.”

“Oh. Guess I’ll have to wait.” Bucky doesn’t ask where exactly he is, knowing that kind of information could be dangerous, nor does he ask about the man, who keeps looking at him, his eyes clear blue even in the twilight, hair shining gold even under shadows.

“I’ve never seen your kind fly before. Did you make the wings yourself?”

Bucky notes the way the man says _your kind_ , confirming they’re not the same. “I did.”

“Why?”

“I just wanted to. Isn’t that enough?”

Bucky gets a burst of laugher for that, but it’s not mocking, just delighted and surprised. It flows like sunlight over him.

“That’s the best reason. Come, I’m hungry, and I bet you could do with a supper too.” He gestures for Bucky to follow. “You can call me Steve.”

Steve helps Bucky out of his wings and they hang them out on a tree branch to keep them from wrinkling. Steve puts away his drawing things before picking out a few fruits from the nearest tree. He hands them out to Bucky and pulls out a linen sack.

Bucky considers the pomegranate, smiling slightly. “I wonder if I should be suspicious, after all these tend to tie people down.”

Steve grins at him and gestures for him to come and sit. “That only happens in the underworld, and trust me, you’d know if we were there.”

They eat bread that somehow is still warm with fragrant cheese and drink wine. They leave the pomegranates to last, licking the red juice from their fingers. It’s fully dark when they’re done, but it’s not getting cool like it does at Bucky’s home, he’s perfectly comfortable. They talk and laugh, and Bucky finds himself chasing after Steve’s amusement because it warms him through and through. Hours pass under the stars.

***

Bucky wakes up to a hand on his shoulder. He’s wrapped in Steve’s cloak that’s made of softest wool he’s ever touched and he’s perfectly warm even though he’s been sleeping on the ground.

“Come, it’s nearly sunrise. You need to catch the right moment to make it home.”

Bucky stretches himself, and finds he’s perfectly relaxed, not at all sore. Steve helps the wings on his back, tightening the clasps with care.

“I liked talking to you,” Steve says as he works on the fastenings, not looking up to Bucky.

“I did too. Can I come back? Or can you come to my home?”

“You can come back. I’d like you to. Just take into air at sunset the way you did yesterday, and the path will open for you.”

They stand at the edge of the hill, gazing into the whitening horizon beyond the sea that’s almost glass calm that day, waiting for the sun to break out. There’s a shock of warmth at Bucky’s elbow, Steve’s fingers ghosting over his skin.

“I’ll be here waiting for you. Now go.”

Bucky doesn’t hesitate, just springs into the air, the mist envelopes him for a moment, and as he emerges he’s looking at the familiar shore he’s visited since childhood. He can still feel Steve’s touch on his skin, wants to be back with him, but he knows it’s better to come back to home for the day. The orchard on the hill and the clear blue sea are not part of his world, and it means he can’t just stay with Steve.

***

Bucky goes back that night, leaping into the air and grinning as he passes through the mist.

Just as he promised, Steve is waiting, standing at the edge of the hill, shoulders relaxing at the sight of him.

***

Bucky soon notices Steve always has his drawing supplies with him, but he never sees Steve actually drawing, nor does he get to see the works. He asks about it once, ten nights after they first met, and Steve looks at him, eyes fully serious.

“You aren’t ready for that.”

There’s a warning in Steve’s voice, and while Bucky doesn’t really know what exactly it is about, he lets it go, doesn’t ask again.

***

Every night Bucky meets Steve, every morning he flies back home and goes to work. He thinks he must get only a couple of hours of sleep every night, lying on the grass under Steve’s cloak, and yet he’s never felt as rested as he does. They eat the fruit straight from trees, and Bucky only recognized about half of them, they talk for hours, or just lie next to each other under the stars. Bucky finds himself telling all his secrets to Steve, and Steve tells his own stories, fanciful fables of chaos dancing with stars and earth forming out of void, somehow never really saying what or who he is.

Bucky knows the way he’s drawn to Steve is anything but usual for him, he’s been pushing people away for a long time, and yet here he is, unable, unwilling to stay away. He doesn’t want to put words to it, but he knows anyway, he knows what he wants. He thinks Steve does too, but he must also see the uncertainty, the hesitation thrumming inside Bucky.

Bucky wants to touch, to hold, to taste. He wants to never leave.

He wants to see Steve under the midday sun, because he’s sure he’d glow golden then.

***

He still wonders what exactly Steve’s drawings look like.

***

He finds himself talking of his hesitations, the barriers he’s raised inside his mind, around his heart.

“Love is terrifying, it’ll end up hurting you.” Bucky thinks of his parents and sisters, thinks of the pain that lanced through him when he knew they’d be gone forever. He finds it hard to be sure they’ll meet again in the underworld.

Steve’s eyes are somehow both serious and amused at the same time. “You’re saying love is like an arrow. But I think it can also be like a shield, holding you safe for a while. Maybe it will be gone, maybe it won’t, but while it is there you are protected.”

It’s only then Bucky realizes how ridiculous it is of him to say he doesn’t want to love anyone, doesn’t want to get close when it’s been months already and he’s come to Steve every night. It’s such a simple realization, it changes things even when it doesn’t mean all his other barriers will come down right after.

Steve brushes his fingers over Bucky’s, his touch scorching as it always is, both reassuring and exhilarating. Bucky wants to fling himself at Steve, and he wants to run away. Day by day, the urge to run lessens.

***

It’s rare for Bucky to be awake while Steve is sleeping, but it happens one morning. The moon is bright and huge up in the sky, lightening the pre-dawn garden well enough that he can see every detail. Back at home the fall has come, the nights are colder and the final crops ready to be harvested, but here it’s still warm, still the same. The flowers are blooming, there are new fruit ripening in the trees, and it is odd to think it’s been half a year already since Bucky first found his way to Steve.

He stays resting on the ground, just looking at Steve, the way his long lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, his perfect bow of lips parted, hair shimmering gold. Bucky would reach out and touch him, he thinks it wouldn’t be unwelcome, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t do it now that the dawn is almost here, and he has to soon leave. He wants to have a whole night, wants to have Steve’s steady blue gaze on him when he finally reaches out.

He resolves to do so that evening when he comes back.

He leaves Steve in his slumber, not wanting to cut his rest short now that it’s so peaceful, and pulls the wings on himself, fingers swiftly attaching all the fastening. As he’s making sure everything is as it should be, his gaze lands on Steve’s parchment pieces left lying nearby, and he hesitates only for a moment before he picks one up. Surely one look can’t cause any harm.

He turns the parchment around, and hears Steve shout, “Bucky, no!” but he’s already seen it. He doesn’t know what exactly it is that Steve has drawn, only that it twists and moves, it’s beautiful and terrifying at the same time, and he can’t deny the truth, he knows in his bones now that Steve is something utterly different from him, knows this land is not meant for those made of flesh and blood.

He drops the parchment and turns toward Steve but it’s too late, the mists surround him and the ground dissipates from under his feet. Only the fact he’s been flying regularly saves him from falling, makes him instantly stretch his wings and gather air under them.

The mist disappears into a gust of wind, and he’s looking at the rolling sea under deep blue sky, the air clear of haze as it only gets in the fall. The only land at sight is his home shore.

Bucky calls for Steve but he knows it’s useless, knows there won’t be an answer. Yet he yells his voice hoarse as he flies in circles over the sea, hoping against hope the mists will guide him back. Hours pass, his arms grow tired but he doesn’t go back home.

The sun climbs higher and higher, the day unusually warm for the time of year, and Bucky only realizes he’s in trouble when he’s already falling, his wings disintegrating around him. He breaks the water with his left arm, feels the bones shatter, and thinks it must have been inevitable, that love must be an arrow after all.

 

* * *

 

 

### Part II: then the day broke

 

It’s another spring, another sunset, but Bucky doesn’t see it. He’s sitting in the corner of a winehouse, well on his way toward intoxication. Just as he does every night.

He woke up on the beach the evening of the day he fell, the remains of his wings clinging to him, his left arm mangled. It still doesn’t work quite the way it should, probably never will. Bucky hasn’t tried to make new wings, doesn’t think he could fly with his weakened left arm, and even if he could there would be no point.

The gate in the mists wouldn’t open for him, he wouldn’t find Steve again.

It’s why he drinks, to try and forget, and sometimes he even succeeds for a few miserable hours.

The people in his town generally leave him alone, he never was close to any of them, and now he’s not at all sociable, only speaking if he absolutely has to. Hence it’s a surprise when someone sits at his table. Bucky glowers at him but the man just smiles, not ruffled. Bucky recognizes him, he’s Zola, an inventor, a jeweler, a toymaker, who can make whatever is needed if it is something unconventional enough to get the man’s attention.

“I can make you new wings,” Zola says, and the not so polite request to be left alone dies on Bucky’s lips.

He hasn’t wanted to try it by himself and yet now that Zola says it, something stirs inside him, a longing. He remembers loving to fly even before he found Steve.

“I can make them stronger, more agile, not dependent on the strength of your arm,” Zola continues.

“Why would you?”

“Because no one else can.”

Bucky looks at the man properly then, tries to shake away the haze in his head.

“What’s the catch?” he asks, because he knows there is one. There must be a price to pay.

“I’d have to build them right into your body, you wouldn’t be able to take them off. And it would hurt.”

It’s not something Bucky worries about, everything hurts him, and one more source of pain wouldn’t mean much. Instead the possibility suddenly intrigues him, the way nothing has since the fall.

“Let’s do it.”

***

It does hurt.

It’s all craft, combined skill of hands and enchantment allows for the wings to be built, makes it possible for the strands of metal to knit themselves among his muscles and tendons, anchor themselves at the bones. Zola doesn’t talk to him, clearly doesn’t care about anything but his work, treats him more like an object than a human being, but Bucky doesn’t mind. He has nothing to say.

He waits and endures as weeks and months pass, his nightmares filled with red mists of agony.

***

It’s midsummer when he finally flies again.

He gets into the air at first try, and immediately can tell how much stronger these wings are than the ones he crafted. He can take much steeper turns, doesn’t have to worry about the sun. He can fly much higher.

It’s not the same though, there’s no delight in it, just an ache in his muscles where they’re now married with metal, an ache in his soul for another time.

Yet he flies.

***

War comes to their town that fall, just when it’s becoming cold again, making everything more difficult. Bucky fights too, and he’s a terror to his opponents; shooting arrows from high up, able to scout in any terrain.

He hasn’t really been listening to the rumors and news during the last year, and hence he actually doesn’t know why they’re at war, doesn’t know if their cause is justified. He does his part because he’s told to, same as every other young man, even when he’s the only one that can fly. There are symbols he sees among their troops, the red hydra painted or sewn on their clothes and equipment, he sees men band together and start talking about more than defending their town. There’s talk of taking instead of protecting.

Bucky gets roped in it, he still doesn’t care much about anything, and it is something to do. Yet he feels uneasy as their small ambush troop sets out, and even more uneasy when they come to a village. He sees the families, all of them much like his, and he knows these people don’t deserve to be hurt the way his compatriots would want them to.

He flies ahead but not to attack, instead he stands between the village and his former comrades, marking himself the enemy.

***

In the end Bucky falls on his knees, the ground under him seeped with blood, some of it his, most not. There’s no one left standing, the villagers are nowhere to be seen, none of them lying among the bodies all around him. Those are all people from his town, those too reckless to run away, and with it he knows he can never go back. Not that he wants to, but there’s nowhere else to go either. He stays sitting on his knees, not moving even when the cold winter chill shakes him.

He aches all around, in body and soul, and he thinks he couldn’t even lift his arm if he tried, let alone his wings. It was difficult to move them toward the end of the battle, and he hasn’t looked at them, doesn’t want to know about the damage that will never heal.

It may have been hours, or just minutes when he becomes aware of another presence, but he doesn’t lift his face, keeps staring at the spot on the ground just in front of his knees. Not until Steve, because of course it’s Steve, crouches in front of him not caring of the blood and mud. Then Bucky can’t help but look at him.

Steve is different here, the comfortable clothes Bucky remembers have been replaced with something more formal, fitted, almost like an armor, but made of cloth. His wings shimmer behind him, all white and gold, and Bucky thinks it should be hard to look at him, it’s said to be like that with gods, but it’s not. Steve’s blue eyes are just as Bucky remembers, kind and serious.

“You shouldn’t have come for me,” Bucky forces out.

“Why not?”

“I killed all these people, spilled all this blood.”

“And yet because of you, the only people whose blood was spilled today were those who chose to fight. No innocent lives were taken. It matters.”

Bucky swallows, already feeling less cold as Steve’s presence settles around him.

“Sometimes I thought, the way you talked about things, that you might be of the war,” Bucky says. “But you’re not.”

“No, I’m not.”

Steve reaches out to brush some stray hairs away from Bucky’s face, his touch still almost scorching, and Bucky leans into it, wants to be wrapped in the heat. It’s not like any of their touches from before; he’s familiar with Steve touching his hand or arm or shoulder, the contact always fleeting, Steve helping him with the wings, or lying under the wool cloak under stars, shoulders brushing. Not like this, not with Steve’s hand coming to cup his face, thumb caressing over his cheekbone.

“I love you,” Bucky finds himself saying, a bit helpless. “I didn’t want to love anyone, and you could have made me but I know you didn’t, it just happened anyway.”

Steve keeps looking at him, utterly serious, and the question he asks is not what Bucky expected, but it’s better, something he didn’t think was possible.

“Do you want to come with me?”

“Yes.”

Steve pulls Bucky to his feet and steps closer, a strong arm wrapping around him. Bucky grasps a hold of Steve’s shirt at his waist, trying to steady the trembling of his hands, and when Steve kisses him he knows he’s finally come home after years and years.

He lets his lips part, and it’s like no other kiss he’s ever had, he knew it wouldn’t be and yet he’s surprised to be so overwhelmed. Steve’s power flows into him, through him, and it takes away every ache and pain he has, soothes his muscles, repairs damage.

It does even more, Bucky can feel it, the change in his wings when they become something that belongs to him, a true part of him instead of just something built into him. They’re lighter too, so much so they feel nearly weightless in comparison, the stretch and pull and pain he’s carried ever since Zola got his hands on him gone.

Steve pulls away and as Bucky opens his eyes he sees they’re back in the familiar orchard, the flowers still blooming, apples ripe in the tree just next to them. It’s the middle of the day, sun is shining and Bucky was right, Steve shines all golden in the light, happiness overflowing in his eyes.

“In a way I love everyone, it’s what I am,” Steve says, not letting go of Bucky. “But it was always different with you, from that first night when all I wanted was to hear you tell your stories. I love you like I never expected I would, utterly and closely.”

Bucky’s never doubted Steve, not once, for all that it feels almost impossible that a divinity like Steve would love him. He’s never doubted Steve’s love, only his own capability to accept it, and now with Steve’s words, he finally lets the doubts go.

Steve wraps his arms around him again, his wings too coming to cradle Bucky, who feels perfectly safe, perfectly at home the way he never did before. He knows he’s changed, knows he could now look at Steve’s drawings without them overwhelming him. He’d be able to understand now.

He thinks again how Steve said love is like a shield, and finds himself finally inclined to agree. It was what made the decision for him back on the battlefield to stand against those from his town, the connection he had to his family and not wanting to see it broken for others. It’s what has brought him here and mended him, body and soul. Steve’s love for him, his love for Steve.

It really is that simple, and now he has an eternity to spend with Steve under the sun and stars, cozy in the orchard or flying among the clouds. It’s something he never would have known to wish for, and yet everything he’s ever wanted.

Bucky rests his forehead against Steve’s, angles for yet another kiss, delighting in how Steve smiles into it. Even the sun seems to be smiling just for the two of them.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This story happened extremely organically, I didn’t set out to write a Greek myth AU, or have a goal of mixing the two stories I drew elements from, it all just arrived into my head pretty much fully formed, a surprise from my subconsciousness that must have been secretly cooking it up:D
> 
> Steve is the equivalent of Eros here, and I specifically envisioned him as the Eros from earlier stories where he isn’t Aphrodite’s son but a primordial god. Very fittingly he was often depicted to be an artist too. Because of this, while I borrowed a lot of elements from the story of Eros and Psyche, there’s no jealous mother plotline.
> 
> Bucky in this fic embodies both Psyche and Icarus, and as in both myths his downfall, which is a nice parallel to his canonical fall, happens because he goes against instructions, and the same as Psyche, he has to find a way back to Steve.
> 
> The fic title as well as the ones for the two parts comes from a poem by H.D, called [Fragment 40](https://www.poetrynook.com/poem/fragment-40-0). It’s one of my favorite poems, especially the fifth verse is unbearably beautiful.
> 
> I’m also on [tumblr](http://stellahibernis.tumblr.com/post/166184165327/love-must-first-shatter-us).


End file.
